Reprinted Pieces, by Charles Dickens

THE NOBLE SAVAGE

TO come to the point at once, I beg to say that I have not the least belief in the Noble Savage. I consider him a
prodigious nuisance, and an enormous superstition. His calling rum fire-water, and me a pale face, wholly fail to
reconcile me to him. I don’t care what he calls me. I call him a savage, and I call a savage a something highly
desirable to be civilised off the face of the earth. I think a mere gent (which I take to be the lowest form of
civilisation) better than a howling, whistling, clucking, stamping, jumping, tearing savage. It is all one to me,
whether he sticks a fish-bone through his visage, or bits of trees through the lobes of his ears, or bird’s feathers in
his head; whether he flattens his hair between two boards, or spreads his nose over the breadth of his face, or drags
his lower lip down by great weights, or blackens his teeth, or knocks them out, or paints one cheek red and the other
blue, or tattoos himself, or oils himself, or rubs his body with fat, or crimps it with knives. Yielding to whichsoever
of these agreeable eccentricities, he is a savage — cruel, false, thievish, murderous; addicted more or less to grease,
entrails, and beastly customs; a wild animal with the questionable gift of boasting; a conceited, tiresome,
bloodthirsty, monotonous humbug.

Yet it is extraordinary to observe how some people will talk about him, as they talk about the good old times; how
they will regret his disappearance, in the course of this world’s development, from such and such lands where his
absence is a blessed relief and an indispensable preparation for the sowing of the very first seeds of any influence
that can exalt humanity; how, even with the evidence of himself before them, they will either be determined to believe,
or will suffer themselves to be persuaded into believing, that he is something which their five senses tell them he is
not.

There was Mr. Catlin, some few years ago, with his Ojibbeway Indians. Mr. Catlin was an energetic, earnest man, who
had lived among more tribes of Indians than I need reckon up here, and who had written a picturesque and glowing book
about them. With his party of Indians squatting and spitting on the table before him, or dancing their miserable jigs
after their own dreary manner, he called, in all good faith, upon his civilised audience to take notice of their
symmetry and grace, their perfect limbs, and the exquisite expression of their pantomime; and his civilised audience,
in all good faith, complied and admired. Whereas, as mere animals, they were wretched creatures, very low in the scale
and very poorly formed; and as men and women possessing any power of truthful dramatic expression by means of action,
they were no better than the chorus at an Italian Opera in England — and would have been worse if such a thing were
possible.

Mine are no new views of the noble savage. The greatest writers on natural history found him out long ago. BUFFON
knew what he was, and showed why he is the sulky tyrant that he is to his women, and how it happens (Heaven be
praised!) that his race is spare in numbers. For evidence of the quality of his moral nature, pass himself for a moment
and refer to his ‘faithful dog.’ Has he ever improved a dog, or attached a dog, since his nobility first ran wild in
woods, and was brought down (at a very long shot) by POPE? Or does the animal that is the friend of man, always
degenerate in his low society?

It is not the miserable nature of the noble savage that is the new thing; it is the whimpering over him with maudlin
admiration, and the affecting to regret him, and the drawing of any comparison of advantage between the blemishes of
civilisation and the tenor of his swinish life. There may have been a change now and then in those diseased
absurdities, but there is none in him.

Think of the Bushmen. Think of the two men and the two women who have been exhibited about England for some years.
Are the majority of persons — who remember the horrid little leader of that party in his festering bundle of hides,
with his filth and his antipathy to water, and his straddled legs, and his odious eyes shaded by his brutal hand, and
his cry of ‘Qu-u-u-u-aaa!’ (Bosjesman for something desperately insulting I have no doubt) — conscious of an
affectionate yearning towards that noble savage, or is it idiosyncratic in me to abhor, detest, abominate, and abjure
him? I have no reserve on this subject, and will frankly state that, setting aside that stage of the entertainment when
he counterfeited the death of some creature he had shot, by laying his head on his hand and shaking his left leg — at
which time I think it would have been justifiable homicide to slay him — I have never seen that group sleeping,
smoking, and expectorating round their brazier, but I have sincerely desired that something might happen to the
charcoal smouldering therein, which would cause the immediate suffocation of the whole of the noble strangers.

There is at present a party of Zulu Kaffirs exhibiting at the St. George’s Gallery, Hyde Park Corner, London. These
noble savages are represented in a most agreeable manner; they are seen in an elegant theatre, fitted with appropriate
scenery of great beauty, and they are described in a very sensible and unpretending lecture, delivered with a modesty
which is quite a pattern to all similar exponents. Though extremely ugly, they are much better shaped than such of
their predecessors as I have referred to; and they are rather picturesque to the eye, though far from odoriferous to
the nose. What a visitor left to his own interpretings and imaginings might suppose these noblemen to be about, when
they give vent to that pantomimic expression which is quite settled to be the natural gift of the noble savage, I
cannot possibly conceive; for it is so much too luminous for my personal civilisation that it conveys no idea to my
mind beyond a general stamping, ramping, and raving, remarkable (as everything in savage life is) for its dire
uniformity. But let us — with the interpreter’s assistance, of which I for one stand so much in need — see what the
noble savage does in Zulu Kaffirland.

The noble savage sets a king to reign over him, to whom he submits his life and limbs without a murmur or question,
and whose whole life is passed chin deep in a lake of blood; but who, after killing incessantly, is in his turn killed
by his relations and friends, the moment a grey hair appears on his head. All the noble savage’s wars with his
fellow-savages (and he takes no pleasure in anything else) are wars of extermination — which is the best thing I know
of him, and the most comfortable to my mind when I look at him. He has no moral feelings of any kind, sort, or
description; and his ‘mission’ may be summed up as simply diabolical.

The ceremonies with which he faintly diversifies his life are, of course, of a kindred nature. If he wants a wife he
appears before the kennel of the gentleman whom he has selected for his father-in-law, attended by a party of male
friends of a very strong flavour, who screech and whistle and stamp an offer of so many cows for the young lady’s hand.
The chosen father-in-law — also supported by a high-flavoured party of male friends — screeches, whistles, and yells
(being seated on the ground, he can’t stamp) that there never was such a daughter in the market as his daughter, and
that he must have six more cows. The son-in-law and his select circle of backers screech, whistle, stamp, and yell in
reply, that they will give three more cows. The father-in-law (an old deluder, overpaid at the beginning) accepts four,
and rises to bind the bargain. The whole party, the young lady included, then falling into epileptic convulsions, and
screeching, whistling, stamping, and yelling together — and nobody taking any notice of the young lady (whose charms
are not to be thought of without a shudder) — the noble savage is considered married, and his friends make demoniacal
leaps at him by way of congratulation.

When the noble savage finds himself a little unwell, and mentions the circumstance to his friends, it is immediately
perceived that he is under the influence of witchcraft. A learned personage, called an Imyanger or Witch Doctor, is
immediately sent for to Nooker the Umtargartie, or smell out the witch. The male inhabitants of the kraal being seated
on the ground, the learned doctor, got up like a grizzly bear, appears, and administers a dance of a most terrific
nature, during the exhibition of which remedy he incessantly gnashes his teeth, and howls:— ‘I am the original
physician to Nooker the Umtargartie. Yow yow yow! No connexion with any other establishment. Till till till! All other
Umtargarties are feigned Umtargarties, Boroo Boroo! but I perceive here a genuine and real Umtargartie, Hoosh Hoosh
Hoosh! in whose blood I, the original Imyanger and Nookerer, Blizzerum Boo! will wash these bear’s claws of mine. O yow
yow yow!’ All this time the learned physician is looking out among the attentive faces for some unfortunate man who
owes him a cow, or who has given him any small offence, or against whom, without offence, he has conceived a spite. Him
he never fails to Nooker as the Umtargartie, and he is instantly killed. In the absence of such an individual, the
usual practice is to Nooker the quietest and most gentlemanly person in company. But the nookering is invariably
followed on the spot by the butchering.

Some of the noble savages in whom Mr. Catlin was so strongly interested, and the diminution of whose numbers, by rum
and smallpox, greatly affected him, had a custom not unlike this, though much more appalling and disgusting in its
odious details.

The women being at work in the fields, hoeing the Indian corn, and the noble savage being asleep in the shade, the
chief has sometimes the condescension to come forth, and lighten the labour by looking at it. On these occasions, he
seats himself in his own savage chair, and is attended by his shield-bearer: who holds over his head a shield of
cowhide — in shape like an immense mussel shell — fearfully and wonderfully, after the manner of a theatrical
supernumerary. But lest the great man should forget his greatness in the contemplation of the humble works of
agriculture, there suddenly rushes in a poet, retained for the purpose, called a Praiser. This literary gentleman wears
a leopard’s head over his own, and a dress of tigers’ tails; he has the appearance of having come express on his hind
legs from the Zoological Gardens; and he incontinently strikes up the chief’s praises, plunging and tearing all the
while. There is a frantic wickedness in this brute’s manner of worrying the air, and gnashing out, ‘O what a delightful
chief he is! O what a delicious quantity of blood he sheds! O how majestically he laps it up! O how charmingly cruel he
is! O how he tears the flesh of his enemies and crunches the bones! O how like the tiger and the leopard and the wolf
and the bear he is! O, row row row row, how fond I am of him!’ which might tempt the Society of Friends to charge at a
hand-gallop into the Swartz-Kop location and exterminate the whole kraal.

When war is afoot among the noble savages — which is always — the chief holds a council to ascertain whether it is
the opinion of his brothers and friends in general that the enemy shall be exterminated. On this occasion, after the
performance of an Umsebeuza, or war song, — which is exactly like all the other songs, — the chief makes a speech to
his brothers and friends, arranged in single file. No particular order is observed during the delivery of this address,
but every gentleman who finds himself excited by the subject, instead of crying ‘Hear, hear!’ as is the custom with us,
darts from the rank and tramples out the life, or crushes the skull, or mashes the face, or scoops out the eyes, or
breaks the limbs, or performs a whirlwind of atrocities on the body, of an imaginary enemy. Several gentlemen becoming
thus excited at once, and pounding away without the least regard to the orator, that illustrious person is rather in
the position of an orator in an Irish House of Commons. But, several of these scenes of savage life bear a strong
generic resemblance to an Irish election, and I think would be extremely well received and understood at Cork.

In all these ceremonies the noble savage holds forth to the utmost possible extent about himself; from which (to
turn him to some civilised account) we may learn, I think, that as egotism is one of the most offensive and
contemptible littlenesses a civilised man can exhibit, so it is really incompatible with the interchange of ideas;
inasmuch as if we all talked about ourselves we should soon have no listeners, and must be all yelling and screeching
at once on our own separate accounts: making society hideous. It is my opinion that if we retained in us anything of
the noble savage, we could not get rid of it too soon. But the fact is clearly otherwise. Upon the wife and dowry
question, substituting coin for cows, we have assuredly nothing of the Zulu Kaffir left. The endurance of despotism is
one great distinguishing mark of a savage always. The improving world has quite got the better of that too. In like
manner, Paris is a civilised city, and the Theatre Francais a highly civilised theatre; and we shall never hear, and
never have heard in these later days (of course) of the Praiser THERE. No, no, civilised poets have better work to do.
As to Nookering Umtargarties, there are no pretended Umtargarties in Europe, and no European powers to Nooker them;
that would be mere spydom, subordination, small malice, superstition, and false pretence. And as to private
Umtargarties, are we not in the year eighteen hundred and fifty-three, with spirits rapping at our doors?

To conclude as I began. My position is, that if we have anything to learn from the Noble Savage, it is what to
avoid. His virtues are a fable; his happiness is a delusion; his nobility, nonsense.

We have no greater justification for being cruel to the miserable object, than for being cruel to a WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE or an ISAAC NEWTON; but he passes away before an immeasurably better and higher power than ever ran wild in
any earthly woods, and the world will be all the better when his place knows him no more.